Blood Brothers
by s1ncer1ty
Summary: On a routine sabotage assignment, Trowa was supposed to protect Quatre... But when he sustains a serious injury, roles are reversed, and it's up to Quatre to get them both home alive.
1. Routine Assignment

"Blood Brothers"  
by s1ncer1ty

** Insert standard disclaimers here. GW isn't mine, but oh, I wish Trowa was!   
  
This is my first go at a fic of this genre, and while I enjoy the series immensely, I've seen precious few episodes... So be gentle. I tried to pull everything together in a coherent timeline and setting, but if I'm off here or there on particular details, don't hate me for it. I'm trying. Months from now, I'll probably look back on this first attempt and laugh, once I'm more familiar with the series.  
  
Yaoi? If you'd like it to be. Or you could view it as a friendship fic. I tried to leave the actual relationship status ambiguous. If you wish to interpret it as Yaoi, go ahead. If not, that's just shibby with me as well. I'll leave the interpretations up to you.

Many thanks to my ever-patient beta, Starsnake! *glompa* This fic was heavily inspired by Stabbing Westward's "Darkest Days"... particularly the semi-industrial songs. **

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"Part I: Routine Assignment"

A routine assignment. That's all it should have been.

An unmanned OZ supply barge, filled with all degrees of weaponry, in addition to necessary provisions, headed towards enemy territory. The young Gundam pilots had agreed that, with no threat of human casualty, Quatre would be best-suited to the mission -- it would give him the piloting experience, and would have less chance of weighing upon his innocent conscience. Trowa's expertise as a covert agent, as well as his Gundam's heavy artillery should the necessity arise, was vital for the assignment's success. Besides, the two pilots, though different as night and day, worked together with a synergy unlike that of any of the other boys. It was quickly agreed that they would go.

Yet as he watched his two companions speed off into the blackness of space's eternal night, Heero couldn't restrain the grunt of disapproval that escaped him.

"You're not seriously worried about those two, are you?" Duo asked, his violet eyes sparkling and a typical grin on his face.

Heero laced his arms over his chest, watching the Gundams until the distance made them mere specks that blended with the surrounding stars. "I have a bad feeling about this," he remarked sourly.

"Oh, ye of little faith," laughed the American pilot. "They can take care of themselves just fine! There's not a single Mobile Doll or warship within aeons of that barge."

"Hrm." Heero turned a slitted eye, shrouded by an overhanging lock of his black hair, towards Duo. "This mission is too easy."

"I agree," Wu Fei injected, sliding away from the monitor once Trowa and Quatre had disappeared from plain view. "But you also underestimate their skill, Heero."

"And you underestimate the enemy," Heero returned.

"Never," hissed Wu Fei, his shoulders tightening as he strode towards the door.

Duo, surprised that no further challenge spouted from the Chinese boy's lips, called out to him, "Where are you going?"

"To complete the mechanical upgrade to Nataku," he muttered over his shoulder. "In case she is needed."

As the door hissed shut upon Wu Fei's departure, Duo stared for a moment longer at Heero's unmoving figure, noting the knots that formed in the muscles of his back beneath the sleeveless tank top. He placed his hands upon his hips, drumming his fingers impatiently for a moment, before finally letting out a frustrated grumble. "You guys are so serious sometimes, it makes me sick!"

If he'd been hoping for a response from Heero, Duo was certainly not going to get one now. The stoic Japanese pilot remained still, his eyes fixed upon the monitor, though Quatre and Trowa were long gone.

Duo threw his hands in the air in attrition. "Fine, fine. I'll make sure the Deathscythe is in working order." He pointed a finger at Heero's silent form. "But when those two make it back in one piece, I'm going to be the first to say, 'I told you so.'"

As Duo followed in Wu Fei's footsteps from the room, muttering all sorts of expletives in English, Heero whispered to himself, "For once, I hope you will."

***

"Our target's in range." Quatre's face hovered upon the monitor to Trowa's left, the blond-haired boy's features relaxed. He'd been glad when it was decided that Trowa, and not one of the other pilots, would accompany him on the mission.

With a nimbleness that betrayed the cumbersome weight of HeavyArms, Trowa maneuvered his Gundam towards the narrow opening on the underside of the supply barge. "Acknowledged. Scan for surface weaponry."

Quatre's gloved fingers tapped several buttons on Sandrock's control panel, his crystal eyes skimming over the data that flew past in a rapid stream. The boy noted basic armaments, set to a predictable automatic-fire pattern. "Nothing that we can't handle. It looks like we're good to go."

"Hmm." As usual, Trowa's features betrayed little of what he was truly thinking. His pulse didn't even speed its pace as he readied HeavyArms to deflect the oncoming fire from the barge, thus covering Quatre and allowing him to enter unscathed. "Are you ready?"

"I am. Let's do this." Quatre's visual link disengaged, and the boy propelled Sandrock towards the supply barge.

Immediately detecting the oncoming Gundam decoy, the unmanned barge opened fire in a volley of light. Quatre gripped the controls tightly as the explosions of HeavyArms' deflection rocked the powerful mech armour. He quickly guided Sandrock towards the opening, dodging the line of fire. Trowa's aim was deadly accurate, and he soon followed Quatre into the docking bay.

The two young pilots lowered their Gundams to the ground, each amalgam of armour and weaponry assuming a kneeling position before opening their cockpits. The boys shouldered lightweight rucksacks containing enough necessary explosives to blow the barge to kingdom come.

"Let's get this over with," Trowa said, his long bangs shading half his face, even beneath the helmet.

"We shouldn't be hasty," replied Quatre, a trusting smile lighting his face. "We've got all the time in the world."

Trowa glanced quietly at the empty hall where nothing moved, his senses on alert. "No, we don't."

Quatre nodded in sympathy for his companion's unspoken unease. If Trowa was uncomfortable, then there had to be a good reason behind it. Quatre trusted fully in his companion's instincts. "Okay. This way, then," he replied, swiftly pointing towards a corridor illuminated with stark, fluorescent bulbs.

It took the boys an hour to encompass the ship, working off a rough map acquired from previous barge sabotage missions. From time to time, Quatre would nod towards a door, a piece of piping, an integral control panel; in response, Trowa would place and set a detonation device. Or, if he felt it unnecessary, he would shake his head and move on. Such wordless exchanges used to unnerve Quatre, but he'd learned by now how to interpret his companion's silence -- with Trowa, words were not needed for communication.

The two returned to the empty hall that led to the bay where they'd landed their Gundams, and from a pocket Quatre produced a remote control, held loosely in his fingers. He wouldn't detonate the explosives until he and Trowa were a safe distance from the barge, but having the device out as soon as possible made both him and Trowa feel more secure.

"Ready?" the young Arabian boy asked, his fingers brushing the flashing red control.

The silent HeavyArms pilot gave a terse nod, but he made no move towards the docking bay. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled for reasons he couldn't explain, and once again he inclined his head towards the end of the hall, where they'd placed the first bomb. There was something in the air -- a sharp electric tingle -- that was too familiar to be comfortable. 

Sensing Trowa's hesitation, Quatre began, "Trowa, what's --" He broke off quickly as the detonation control lit of its own accord, beeping fiercely. The boy lifted his eyes, and he could have sworn he spotted fear when he met Trowa's gaze. He hadn't touched a single button -- why would the explosives detonate if he hadn't engaged the controls?

"Get down, Quatre!" Trowa shouted.

A split second later, Quatre found himself surrounded in his nimble companion's arms, falling to the floor in a controlled tumble. The remote control slid from Quatre's fingers and hit the ground, but the sound never reached either boys' ears.

In a surge of heat and searing pain, the world exploded around them.

***

Duo had been reclining sleepily before the surveillance monitor, his feet propped upon the control panel in the way that always infuriated Heero, when a momentary flicker of brilliant light illuminated the screen. The tune he'd been humming caught in his throat, and he immediately righted himself, tapping in some hurried commands.

"Please tell me that was a supernova," he muttered to himself, his once drowsy cobalt eyes widening in alarm. It was too soon for anything to be exploding -- the other two Gundam pilots would have established a communications link before detonation. "Closer. Come on, show me what that was."

The monitor superimposed a magnified image of the light's source, now swiftly fading in the aftershock. Duo thought his heart would stop as he gazed out at the expanse of littered debris that had once been the supply barge. He knew a communications link from such a distance would be difficult, particularly with the interference from the last electronic emissions of the space debris, but it wasn't impossible.

His fingers flying across the keys to the control panel, he fought to establish the link. "Quatre? Trowa? Guys, if you can hear me, say something. Anything!"

The emptiness of a null channel greeted Duo's ears.

Duo switched to another communications panel, an internal link within the Gundam pilots' base. "Wu Fei? Wu Fei, are you there?" he called, crying blindly into their own docking bay.

A visual rendering of the Chinese pilot, hovering near an opened portion of his Gundam's leg, immediately snapped open before Duo. "What?" Wu Fei's voice and expression were, as always, irritated at the intrusion. However, the boy could sense the urgency in Duo's voice, and a sickening twinge of dread rose within him.

"Something's gone wrong. Horribly wrong."

Upon hearing Duo's explanation, Wu Fei threw the wrench he'd clasped to the ground, and he cried aloud to the deaf ears of the enemy. "Have you no _honor? _Or are you so weak that you cannot meet us head-on? Backstabbing is a coward's way out!"

"Can you find them, Wu Fei? There's so much interference now that I can't get a fix on any life signs in the vicinity."

The young pilot of Shenlong, his beloved Nataku, closed the open panel with surprising gentleness, and he glided up to the cockpit. "If they are still alive, I will find them. Either way, someone will _pay_ for their cowardice."

As Wu Fei blasted off into the eternal night, Duo slumped forward against the control panel momentarily. "I should have listened to you, Heero," he muttered. Then, steeling his shoulders once again, he fought to establish a communications link with his fallen companions. "Quatre? Trowa? Please, answer me! _Answer me!"_

***

Quatre Raberba Winner awoke with a fierce stabbing pain behind his right eye. Groaning quietly, he imagined he could very well have a concussion, judging by the way his head ached, nauseatingly so. He was propped against the wall, and his skull ached from where it had impacted with the metal. But hadn't Trowa thrown himself against Quatre's chest, using his own body to shield the boy from the explosion?

_...Trowa!_

Quatre struggled against vertigo as he pushed himself up with his elbows, his eyes straining through the dim lighting to catch some sign, any sign of his companion. Around him, hunks of sheet metal and crackling wiring further obscured his vision. "Trowa?" the young pilot uttered, his voice sounding very small in his throat.

Suddenly, his keen eyes caught sight of a hand upon the ground, the gloveless fingers limply curled, peeking out from beyond a pile of fallen debris. Quatre fought to gain his footing, but the floor shook, unbalanced, and the Arabian boy could do little more than crawl towards the unmoving hand down the narrow hallway. As he neared, he spotted a dark thickness -- most likely blood -- staining the fingers.

"Trowa? Are you still alive?"

As Quatre staggered to close the distance, he heard a quiet voice murmur, "It would appear that I've cheated destiny once again."

Despite the hunks of metal that continued to fall in the aftershock of the explosion, despite the desperateness of their situation, Quatre laughed upon hearing his friend's voice. Yet the smile faded from his lips when he finally pulled himself to the other boy's side.

Trowa had unzipped the upper portion of his protective pilots' suit, and, although the shirt beneath was black, Quatre could clearly see the blood soaking through. The left arm of the shirt was torn, and he gripped a flap of this fabric in his teeth to tie off a rough tourniquet around a jagged wound.

"You're hurt," Quatre whispered.

Trowa finished tying off the makeshift bandage on his arm and then turned a glittering green eye -- the other obscured by long, tangled bangs -- up to the other pilot. He simply nodded, feeling no need to gloss over the truth. "Yes, I am."

Quatre's fingers trembled, and he closed his eyes tightly until another wave of nausea passed. He couldn't allow himself to go into shock -- not when Trowa was obviously more seriously hurt than he was. The young pilot unzipped his flight suit, kneeling at his companion's side, and forced his eyes open again.

"Let me help you," Quatre murmured, his nimble fingers sliding the remainder of his friend's shirt up, revealing a sunrise of bruises beneath.

Wincing, Trowa gave a dizzy shake of his head. "Those are superficial. This, on the other hand, I believe is more serious." He flicked his fingers down towards his leg in indication.

Quatre visibly paled at the chunk of metal firmly embedded in the upper portion of Trowa's thigh, the injury unnoticed until now. But, even more alarmingly, Sandrock's pilot noted the steady flow of blood from the wound, which had already formed a sticky pool beneath his fallen companion.

The Arabian boy had never imagined that so much blood could come from one person, particularly when that person was still alive... and still had so much more lifeblood to lose...

"Trowa..."

"HeavyArms and Sandrock should be equipped with first aid kits," Trowa remarked, his voice as calm and steady as ever. "You'll need one."

"Of course!" Quatre exclaimed, staggering to his feet despite the vertigo. He couldn't tell if the floor was rocking on its own, or if it was his own lack of balance that made him sway so. "I'll be back in a second, Trowa. Don't... Don't die on me, okay?"

"I should be so lucky," the mysterious boy murmured blandly.

Ignoring Trowa's comment, Quatre leaned heavily against the wall for support as he took shaky steps to the end of the hallway. The docking bay, where they'd landed their Gundams, was only meters away...

Or at least it should have been -- a heavy steel door blocked passage into the docking bay. Unmindful of his bruised fists, Quatre pounded a flat hand against the seal, as if that alone would open it. There was no latch, no panel locking mechanism, not even any more explosives to blow the steel door to pieces.

"This can't be happening," Quatre whispered. Two ragged breaths later, he shouted, "This can't be happening! My Sandrock, where are you?"

Futilely, he began to pound his fists against the steel panel once more.

***

Shenlong glided silently through the massive remains of what had once been an OZ supply barge. Wu Fei had been searching for hours among the floating segments of metal. "There is still no sign of the pilots or their Gundams," he muttered irritably across the communications link.

"You're breaking up, Wu Fei," Duo's voice crackled across the link, though the static interference made it difficult to hear.

"Then boost power to the link," the Chinese boy spat through clenched teeth. He fought to keep Duo's irritating and often oblivious nature from getting to him, especially now, when his strength had to be saved for finding the missing pilots.

"I'm picking up an anomalous alloy metal on sensors, Wu Fei," came Heero's voice. "To your left. It's one of the Gundams."

Wu Fei tapped his fingers across a keyboard panel and guided Shenlong towards the reading, closing the three mile distance swiftly. As he neared, the battered form of a Gundam that had seen many battles -- yet was still as shiny as ever -- took shape. Before him, drifting in the void of space, was HeavyArms.

"I've found one. Gundam number three. HeavyArms," the young pilot announced.

"And Trowa?" Duo insisted.

Wu Fei rapidly typed some commands into the panel, and shook his head at the readings that it immediately returned. "There are no signs of life in the vicinity of the wreckage. As I've told you many times over." Powering up Shenlong's Dragon Fang, he uttered, "You died a commendable death, Trowa Barton. I shall now put your Gundam to its honorable rest."

"You'll do no such thing!" Heero snarled across the communications link.

Taken aback that Heero would question his actions, Wu Fei furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Not until you've seen Trowa's body with your own eyes, Wu Fei. The same goes for Quatre."

"And if I do so anyway?" the Chinese boy challenged.

Heero returned, calmly, "Then you do so at the risk of your own demise."

Wu Fei narrowed his eyes at the source of Heero's voice. In this state of mind, he knew that the Japanese pilot was dangerous -- and even his own combat skills might not save him from death at Heero's hands. He was certainly not afraid, but an inner logic told him that now would not be a good time to die -- not until he'd fulfilled his own destiny.

"Recommencing search," Wu Fei returned quietly, maneuvering his beloved Gundam through the desolate wreckage.

***

The third pass through the narrow, sealed hallway where he and Trowa were trapped revealed to Quatre a toolkit beneath one of the torn panels. As he took inventory of the various pieces of equipment, he noted the spool of thin wire that lay buried at the bottom. He gathered the items in the kit together and carried the bundle to where Trowa lay, his back propped up against the wall.

The silent pilot had tended to his lesser injuries on his own, but Quatre could see the thick blood that continued to seep from the gash in his leg. Perhaps the metal embedded within the muscle had managed to sever an artery -- and if that had happened, then Trowa would certainly be done for.

"How do you feel, Trowa?" Quatre asked gently, unable to hide the overwhelming concern in his voice.

Trowa's chin slumped to his chest, and his long hair tumbled over both his eyes. "Not well at all."

"You'll make it. You have to make it," Quatre insisted. "I ... couldn't find a first aid kit. But I found this." With shaking fingers, he produced the spool of thin, copper-colored wire.

With his good hand, Trowa pushed the bangs from his green eyes. "Crude. But it will be effective."

"Are you sure about this?" Quatre whispered, his blue eyes glittering with unshed tears. "It could make things worse, for all you know."

Trowa's good hand lifted briefly to Quatre's chin before falling limply to his side once again. It was enough to bring the boy's gaze to meet his own. "I'm sure. Now relax."

After taking three or four breaths to steady his emotions once again, Quatre pulled several lengths of the wire from the spool, breaking each strand off with his teeth, working until he had a pile much, much greater than he'd actually need. Then, he stripped himself of the pale shirt he wore beneath his pilots' suit, setting it beside him. Finally, he produced from beside him a thin metal rod, perhaps a piece that had once belonged to a lighting fixture, and held it before Trowa's face. Wordlessly, the other pilot took it in his teeth, and lifted a hand to squeeze Quatre's shoulder.

"May Allah see you through this, my friend," Quatre whispered, not feeling the slightest bit reassured. He braced his feet against Trowa's thigh, wrapped both hands around the hunk of metal embedded within the other boy's leg, and he yanked hard.

Blood spurted in a dizzying flood across Quatre's face and hands, and he nearly toppled backwards when the metal dislodged itself from within his companion's flesh. He might have fainted from the shock, but the helpless, inhuman shriek that burst from Trowa's throat kept Quatre conscious.

"Oh, Trowa..." Quatre sobbed, blindly shoving his shirt against his friend's leg to staunch the torrent of blood. Trowa's eyes were closed tight, beads of sweat collecting on his cold brow, and Quatre could hear the pilot's teeth grind against the metal bar in his mouth. "You've got to hold on. Please..."

Quatre inserted the first length of wire into the wound, the thin metal piercing Trowa's flesh with sickening ease. He prayed that his friend would feel no pain as he wove the gash together in makeshift stitches.

"Unnnhh..." Halfway through the procedure, Trowa's eyes rolled back in his head, the metal rod slipping through his teeth and hitting the ground with a dull clang.

"Don't you even think of dying on me now, Trowa," Quatre muttered, grabbing another length of wire from his pile and continuing to weave it through the boy's wound.

He didn't stop to check his friend's heartbeat or breathing until he'd completed stitching Trowa's leg and had wound it in the blood-sodden remains of his shirt. His hands shook uncontrollably as he surveyed the thick, widening pool of blood beneath his friend's legs -- how could someone lose so much lifeblood and still be alive? 

Almost imperceptibly, Trowa's chest rose as he took a shallow breath... He was still alive. It was only then that Quatre collapsed against his unconscious friend and allowed himself to release his tears.

"Forgive me, Trowa," the smaller boy sobbed with pained finality, his voice echoing through the hallway that had become their tomb. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean for this to happen."

Quatre draped his arm across Trowa's stomach, buried his head into his chest, and cried until his grief expended itself into emptiness.

_... To be continued ... Part II is almost done, trust me! _


	2. The Deliberate Trap

Untitled Document

"Blood Brothers -- Part II: The Deliberate Trap"  
by s1ncer1ty

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** Y'all of little faith... I told you this was just about done! I really had to re-work the ending. I wasn't happy with what I had originally.   
I must admit, writing the Duo/Wu Fei interaction was fun as hell. I wonder if they're as fun on the show... Though that sort of conversation probably goes to Heero...  
Again, Yaoi only if you want it to be. Again, listen to something by Stabbing Westward while reading this. ***

-----

As the storm of weeping finally passed, Quatre began to doze off, both the physical and emotional shock of the unplanned explosion and Trowa's subsequent injuries taking their toll on his weakened body. He couldn't tell how long he slept in the arms of his friend, or how long Trowa himself had been unconscious, but at some point Quatre found himself awakened by a gentle shake against his shoulders.

"Quatre? Quatre, wake up." Although his voice was weak, Trowa spoke insistently in the boy's ear.

Quatre ran a bare arm across his eyes, though his tears had long since dried, and gingerly extracted himself from Trowa's arms. He stared down into the single visible green eye of his friend, shivering at the pallidness of the other boy's complexion. "Trowa, how ... how are you ..."

Dodging Quatre's attempt to question his well-being, Trowa interjected, "Did you realize that the room we're in still has power?"

"Huh? I don't understand..." Quatre gazed down into the softly illuminated face, his brows furrowing.

"The power should have been out -- and we should have been dead -- a long, long time ago."

"Then the entire barge wasn't destroyed," Quatre replied, still holding onto desperate hope.

Trowa shook his head, wincing. He was still so weak from loss of blood, and the swift motion made his head spin... "That's not logical. The remote control activated the explosion, and you know as well as I do that all those bombs are linked to detonate at the same time. Besides," he added, pausing from his cold, quiet speech to take a shivering breath, "the orbit doesn't feel right. This is a smaller vessel than what we were on before."

Quatre slumped against the wall at his friend's side, digesting the information. After some long moments of thought, he finally ventured, "It doesn't feel as if we're being propelled by anything."

"You're correct," Trowa replied immediately, his voice straining a little. "We're drifting."

"Why haven't the others found us yet? They should still be able to detect our heartbeats on their sensors," Quatre stated with a growing sense of panic.

"I don't know," whispered the silent HeavyArms pilot, his eyes drifting shut. The conversation alone was draining him -- all the boy wanted to do was sleep.

"What are we going to do?"

"Quatre, I ... I want you to ..." Trowa struggled to finish his sentence, as unconsciousness threatened to overtake him once again.

"What is it, Trowa?" the Arabian pilot begged.

"...live..."

Quatre drew Trowa's head to his shoulder, the boy's neck rolling limply. "I don't want to live without you, my friend," he whispered.

***

"Gundam Sandrock located," Wu Fei stated with cold precision across the communications link. "No sign of the pilot."

Back at the base of operations, Duo slammed his fist against the arm of his chair in frustration. _"Kuso!"_ he snarled, assuming one of his favorite curses from Heero. "Can't you scan for organic material, Wu Fei? Dead or alive, we've got to get them home!"

"That's an amusing notion, Maxwell," Wu Fei intoned across the link. "But an impractical one, at that."

Heero rose from the chair beside Duo and planted both hands upon the control panel. "Come back, Wu Fei."

"Acknowledged."

Duo tilted his blue eyes up at Heero, his brows raising in concern. "You're giving up? Just like that?"

Coolly, Heero gazed down at the American pilot from beneath his long bangs. "Your guilt is just eating you alive, isn't it?"

"Wha--?" Duo was shocked, and he sat up straighter in his seat before forcing a pained laugh. Heero had seen right through his front of cheeriness, but for some reason he felt inclined to keep it up. "No, not at all! I'm just concerned for their families, that's all."

"Two dozen test-tube sisters and a circus wench? Wu Fei was right. You are amusing," Heero stated, though, as usual, no mirth was evident in the boy's voice.

Duo shrugged casually, continuing to put up the facade of cheerfulness, the only thing that kept him sane through such trying times. "They were our friends, too. And damn good pilots."

"I know," Heero replied, pushing aside his chair and striding for the door. "But Wu Fei's been out there six hours. That's why I'm going to relieve him and head out there, myself."

When the young Japanese pilot was gone, Duo turned back to monitoring the control panel, muttering to himself. "You _really _make it hard for me to hate you sometimes, Heero. Especially when you keep proving to me that you _do_ have a heart."

***

After several hours in their floating tomb -- with Trowa lapsing intermittently in and out of consciousness -- a new danger arose, and Quatre realized that their situation was all the more dire. The air had begun to grow stuffy, leading the boy to believe that no life support systems were enabled in their sealed, drifting prison. The lights were still on, but the only oxygen they had was what was currently in the room -- and currently being expended at a rapid rate.

The deliberate cruelty of the trap tore at Quatre's soul with agonizing fierceness.

Quatre suspected that Trowa had known all along. At the very least, he'd understood the callousness of human nature, and would not have put such a trick past anyone. Hurt so many times in the past, his heart had been hardened well beyond his fifteen years of age. Yet something within him still drove him to protect the innocent -- Quatre, in particular -- from the knowledge that he himself had learned from inhumane, firsthand experience.

Trowa had always protected him. Now, it was his turn to repay the favor.

The spare toolkit allowed Quatre the ability to disassemble the sheet metal panels -- the ones that hadn't been torn apart in the explosion -- on the wall. However, with only basic tools to work with, the work was slow and cumbersome. One by one, he unscrewed the bolts holding the paneling down, leaving them in a neat pile beside him, and he carefully inspected the wiring and the circuitry he found beneath. He'd find something -- life support, the means to reestablish a communications link to the outside, perhaps even the means to jury-rig a crude propulsion system. _He had to..._

"Did you ever think you would die like this, Quatre?" For the time being, Trowa was awake, his whispering voice drifting across the narrow hallway to where Quatre worked on prying off the fourth panel.

"We're not going to die," the Arabian pilot insisted, unable to turn around to face his friend. If he did, he felt he might weep again, and that would do neither of them any good, with the air supply as short as it was.

"It's really not so bad," whispered Trowa.

Hearing the normally silent boy speak in such a manner -- revealing, beneath the toughened exterior, the rare and open glimpse at emotion -- sent chills down Quatre's spine. "We're going to survive, Trowa." The boy's voice was, perhaps, a little too harsh for his liking. It was a vague attempt to conceal his own terror and despair. "Stop talking like that."

"I'm ... glad I'll be able to die like this." Trowa was starting to fade again, but Quatre could hear the strain as he fought to remain conscious. "At least ... I'll die at your side. I'll die with a name..."

"You've always had a name, Trowa," Quatre muttered, thrusting his hands into the mass of wiring beneath the paneling. They had to lead somewhere... "Even if you don't know what it is."

"Trowa Barton is not my name."

"I ... I know," Quatre said, feeling vaguely alarmed at the tremor in his voice. Clearing his throat, he added, "When the war is over, you can come back with me to L4."

"Hunh?"

"You're always welcome in the Winner family, Trowa."

The injured pilot had gone silent once again, the only noise coming from him the steady rasp of breath. Quatre willed himself to turn around, and he brought a hand to his lips at the sight. If it hadn't been so utterly unexpected, Quatre might really have broken down. But crying was the farthest from his mind, and all he could do was stare in numb bewilderment.

"Trowa, you're not... Oh."

Through the depths of unconsciousness, a single tear traced a path through the grime upon Trowa's cheek and disappeared beneath his chin.

***

Duo tapped the keys on the control panel in the same pattern he had for the past eight hours, still trying to establish some sort of link with the downed pilots. His movements were lethargic, his eyes drooping heavily -- but how could he sleep at a time like this? Like a robot, like the unfeeling Gundam he piloted with precision through so many previous battles, he struggled to continue his job.

A thin paper cup, steaming at the top, snapped down upon the control panel before him, startling Duo from his thoughts. He turned to gaze into the black, unblinking eyes of Wu Fei staring down at him.

"You brought me coffee," he murmured, forcing a half-hearted smile to his face. "I didn't know you cared, Wu Fei."

"I didn't bring you coffee," the proud Chinese pilot muttered, his arms crossing over his chest. "It's tea. Chamomile and chrysanthemum."

"Pfft. That stuff'll just put me to sleep."

Wu Fei was silent a moment, before stating, "That's the point."

Duo narrowed his eyes at the boy defensively. "What about you? You've been up just as long -- if not longer -- than me."

"I've also had the time to meditate, to revitalize my body," Wu Fei returned coldly. "You, on the other hand, cannot perform your job with accuracy or efficiency." His voice softening a little, he added, "You must sleep, Duo. I will awaken you if the situation changes. Okay?"

The young American pilot let out a light sigh, rubbing both hands across his eyes, and picked the cup of tea up by the rim. Sliding the chair aside, he stood, and Wu Fei immediately traded places with him, lest he change his mind. "Thank you, Wu Fei."

The other boy glanced up at Duo, and gave a small nod of deference. "You're welcome."

***

Quatre coughed against a closed fist, the air within the sealed, drifting debris that had once been a hallway becoming heavier with each breath. His fingers bore a multitude of tiny cuts, the nails embedded with hints of metal wiring and the dried remains of Trowa's blood. With almost giddy realization, he pondered whether or not he'd ever play the violin again if he survived.

_Of course, to get Trowa out of here alive, I'd give up the ability to make music. I'd give up everything,_ the young Arab thought.

The other pilot hadn't woken up since he'd last fainted, and Quatre supposed he should be thankful. If the air ran out, at least Trowa wouldn't be conscious while he suffocated.

But Quatre tried his hardest to keep his mind from such morbid thoughts. He continued to occupy his time with dismantling the paneling of the wall. If his hunch were correct, he'd eventually find what he'd been looking for... It was just a matter of whether or not he'd have the time or the air supply to unearth it.

Wiping sweat from his brow with a bare arm, Quatre had to pause before dislodging the next metal panel to catch his breath. He tried to take slow, shallow breaths, but even that left him dizzy. Once again, he picked through masses of wire, sheets of circuitry... Yet this recess inside the wall was deeper than the previous sections, and Quatre slid onto his stomach in order to extend his reach within. His fingers wrapped around a single, anomalous black box, still attached to the wiring system, and he inched his way out of the recess.

As Quatre stared down at the box, five inches square on each side and littered with multicolored wires, he heard a weak voice drift across the narrow hallway.

"That's it."

"You're awake," Quatre breathed, turning back towards his injured friend, the box held in shaking fingers. "It's ... I found the power core."

Silently, Trowa flicked his fingertips, gesturing for Quatre to bring the box to him. With the wires still attached, the Arabian boy slowly returned to his friend's side and placed the tiny piece of machinery in his hands. Trowa's green eyes, shaded beneath a tangled fray of bangs, betrayed no emotion as he turned the box around, delicately avoiding the wiring surrounding it. 

"Can we do something with it?" Quatre murmured. 

Trowa was silent a few moments more, and finally spoke, his voice ever-calm. "Destroy it."

Quatre blinked, startled, and shook his head. "You can't be serious. What if we--"

The boy broke off with just a _look_ from Trowa, a direct gaze into his questioning eyes. Without saying a word, Trowa was reprimanding him, Quatre knew. He didn't have to explain his reason why -- and knowing the mysterious pilot, he very likely wouldn't -- but Quatre understood that Trowa's bizarre and possibly fatal request was necessary to free them from their prison, somehow. 

"I trust you," Quatre whispered, taking the power control box from Trowa's hands. The metal bar, imprinted with a perfect mold of Trowa's teeth, lay nearby. Quatre picked it up, murmured a silent prayer through numb lips, and drove it through the center of the black box.

Immediately, the lighting shorted out with a pop and a shower of glass upon the two boys. At the sudden plunge into darkness, Quatre found himself overcome with sudden, unexpected terror, and he cried aloud, even though doing so made him feel insufferably dizzy. Trowa gripped his hand with surprising fierceness and, despite his injuries, yanked the boy towards him. 

"Don't panic," Trowa said, his chest hitching with the effort to keep the Arabian pilot calm... to keep from fainting again. "If the other pilots are out there looking for us, they'll find us now."

"But -- but what if they're ...." Quatre couldn't finish, and he hid his face against Trowa's chest.

Trowa either could not speak, or would not speak. Both boys knew what would happen if the other Gundam pilots were not out searching for them still. 

Quatre calmed down eventually, though his shoulders continued to shake uncontrollably. The air inside the drifting segment of debris was growing short, so short... The fight within him began to be replaced with the cold shock of acceptance. Maybe Trowa was right -- maybe it would be okay, after all, to die in the arms of a friend, a brother in arms. Maybe --

But the familiar -- and dangerously cautious -- voice from the now-unhindered communications link broke through the Arabian boy's thoughts of the great beyond. "You have five seconds to identify yourselves."

"Heero...?"

"Wrong. Three seconds."

"Quatre! Quatre Raberba Winner!" he choked out swiftly. "Heero, is that you?" Sandrock's pilot gasped from the exertion.

"Affirmative. Are you alone?"

"No... Trowa's with me. But he's hurt badly. You've got to get him out of here."

"Why haven't we been able to track you on our sensors until now?" 

"Well, how am I supposed to --" the Arabian boy cried out suddenly. Trowa stopped him with a light squeeze of his shoulder.

Taking a shuddering breath, Trowa spoke in a paper-thin voice. "The power core was rigged with remote override circuitry, designed to scramble and rearrange electronic signals. Including communication and sensors."

"I see," Heero muttered curtly.

"It's also why the bombs activated prematurely," HeavyArms' pilot added in his thin voice. Quatre shivered in the darkness, finally understanding.

"Stand by, you two. I'll have you home in no time."

The link shorted out quickly, and the ceiling to their prison shook as Heero landed the Wing Gundam atop the floating wreckage.

Quatre nestled his head into the center of Trowa's chest, and the other boy loosely draped an arm across his shoulders. "Can you believe it, Trowa? We're saved," he stated, a tone of bewilderment and utter thankfulness in his voice

Trowa said nothing in return. But Quatre knew, even without seeing it, that he was smiling.

***

Duo's sleep had been dreamless, a dark void of space where stars hurtled constantly past. He'd fallen asleep the moment his body had hit the cot, and he had no idea how long he'd been gone before a hand shook him from the stars.

"Hunh?" he muttered, squinting through the darkness. A face hovered above him, the features unrecognizable.

"Wake up, Maxwell."

"Wu Fei?"

"I brought you coffee." The paper mug, much like the one that had earlier held tea, was thrust into Duo's hands.

The American pilot sat up and took a sip of the steaming concoction, which was heavily laced with sugar and cream. Sickeningly sweet -- exactly the way he preferred it. "Thanks," Duo muttered sleepily, before realization kicked in. Gasping, he nearly overturned the cup in his haste to unentangle himself from the volume of bed covers. "Quatre? Trowa? Where --"

"Heero's bringing them home," Wu Fei stated. "Alive."

This time setting the cup of coffee on the stand next to his cot, Duo leaped to his feet with a loud laugh. "I knew they'd make it! Wu Fei, I'd kiss you if I didn't think you'd kill me for it."

The Chinese pilot's black eyes glittered in the darkness. "You're a wise man, Duo Maxwell," he muttered, and, without another word, headed towards the door.

***

"Okay, Trowa. You know the rules. Show us the damage, Frankenstein," stated Duo, grinning like a madman down at the young pilot in the hospital bed.

Wordlessly, Trowa shifted aside the bedsheets to reveal the jagged gash in his leg, the rough wiring removed from the wound and neatly re-stitched by a professional hand. The other pilots looked on impassively -- Heero, leaning his back against a far wall; Wu Fei, standing directly beside the bed, his arms folded tightly over his chest; and Quatre, sitting in a nearby chair and staring out at the vast expanse of space beyond -- but Duo's violet eyes grew impossibly wide as he assessed the damage

"That's going to leave a wicked scar!" the American pilot exclaimed with a wince. "I'm jealous."

Trowa merely shrugged and replaced the sheets over his form, the saline IV in his arm rattling slightly. 

"It's hardly a mark of pride," Wu Fei muttered irritably.

Duo rolled his eyes. "But it's _cool."_

"Do I need to remind you that that," the Chinese pilot darted a finger towards Trowa's leg, "is just a reminder of the enemy's cunning? Of how even the strong can fall if they let down their guard? Of how --"

Heero shoved his body away from the wall with a grunt. "Cool it, you two." 

Duo darted a glance over to Heero, then returned his grin to Trowa. "Anyway, cool scar. Glad you're back," he added quickly. 

Trowa closed his eyes once and merely nodded, his hair spilling across his vision.

"You must be tired," Heero stated in his usual flat tone. "We'll let you get some rest."

"Aww, but I wanted to hear Quatre tell us the story of the mission-gone-wrong again!" Duo whined.

Heero fixed Duo with a hard glare. "No." 

Duo shook his head in amused annoyance, starting towards the door. "Okay, okay. Rest up, Trowa. And Quatre -- nice job, kid." 

Upon hearing his name, Quatre looked up, startled from his reverie. "Huh? Oh... Oh, thanks," he murmured, his cheeks flushing faintly. 

Wu Fei bowed his head briefly in deference on his way out, stating begrudgingly, "Your expertise would have been missed." 

When the other boys finally left the cramped hospital room, Quatre relaxed in his chair, making no move to leave his friend. Instead, he scooted closer to the bedside, whispering, "I thought they'd never leave." 

Trowa nodded silently in agreement. Turning his head upon the pillow, the young pilot looked out over Quatre's shoulder to the window and the stars beyond. The two sat in comfortable silence, simply watching the world pass -- and contented to do so. Once Trowa was back on his feet, he'd be required to become a soldier again, an eternal warrior in a redundant battle. However, until then, there was only the gentle respite of space, and the warm companionship of a brother in arms -- a brother who had, perhaps, gained a few dents in his innocence from the harrowing experience.

Quietly, Trowa and Quatre sat side-by-side, watching the stars. For now, it was all they needed.

_~end~_


End file.
